


in my arms

by koganewest



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Insecure Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, M/M, Post-Canon, Protective Simon Snow, Sad Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Soft Boys, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19332688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koganewest/pseuds/koganewest
Summary: I’ve learned a lot about Baz since we’ve been dating, but nothing is as surprising as his countless and irrational insecurities. (I guess that’s what years of unrequited love do to a person.)Luckily, in addition to his problems, I’ve also learned how to solve them.





	in my arms

I’ve learned a lot about Baz since we’ve been dating. 

See, here’s the thing about him: he’s really just a big baby. No one believes me when I talk about it. (Except Penny, of course. She’s seen it firsthand because, contrary to what he says, Baz does actually trust her a lot.) 

And, I’ll admit, if someone had told me how sensitive Baz would become, I would never have believed it. It just doesn’t make sense. I thought he’d always been quite nonchalant about most things in my eyes, but it turns out that he’s practically the opposite. He overthinks everything — especially when it comes to me. Despite my constant reassurances, he’s always analyzing, worrying, panicking. 

Because he isn’t as confident as he seems; he’s actually very insecure. I guess that’s what years of unrequited love do to a person. 

Sometimes, I feel guilty about it, though he adamantly repeats that I shouldn’t. Of course, I didn’t know any better back then, but I still wish I’d done things differently for his sake. Just so maybe he didn’t think I hated him during the time he’d spent loving me. Just so maybe he didn’t feel so alone and so hopeless for such a long period of time. Just so maybe he’d smile more often back then.

Still, I know I can’t waste time trying to fix the past, so instead, I focus on what I can do now. 

Honestly, it’s easy. Baz and I work well together. I know how he works — and vice versa. We’ve done quite well without much of any arguing (which he says is because he’s too worn out from the seven previous years we spent doing so, but I tell him it’s just because we’d definitely be soulmates if such a thing existed). Regardless of the reason, dating Baz has been one of the easiest choices I’ve ever made. We make each other happy. We just _work._

But even though most days are good, we still have bad ones.

When Baz is down, he takes it out on himself — which is essentially the polar opposite of how I cope. The tricky thing about Baz is that he’s really good at hiding his emotions, since he’s had quite a bit of practice. Whenever he’s insecure or upset or unhappy, he does everything he can to disguise it.

Luckily, I’ve learned to see through his armor.

Which is why, consequently, when I find Baz halfway out the door without a jacket despite the impending winter storm, I stop him immediately.

It’s telling: Baz typically abandons all self-care in a time of personal crisis, which is both surprising and alarming. Disastrous, even. I tug on his arm, and he turns but withholds eye contact, staring at his shaking hand — clue number two. He’s very obviously on the verge of a breakdown. I know that I have to tread carefully or he’ll fall apart right in front of me. 

“Baz,” I say softly, making sure to sound gentle as I tug on his arm again. Reflexively, he slips his hand into mine, sighs, then seems to give up hiding what he’s feeling. It’s no use anyway. I know; he knows I know. 

His eyes are glassy, I notice, when his gaze finally lifts to meet mine. 

“Simon,” he breathes my name like he’s pleading, “I just want some time alone.” He turns from me again, trying to get out the door, but my hold on his hand is firm. Letting him leave is the last thing I should do. If he walks through that door, he’ll just assume that I don’t care enough about him to stop him. That would be detrimental to him. I can’t let him walk out without trying to convince him to stay. 

“Why don’t you just lay down with me for a bit?” I suggest, studying his despondent expression. At first, it looks like he wants to continue pushing until he gets his way, but then he just shrugs, nodding ever so slightly. 

We wordlessly make our way to the bedroom — me leading, and Baz trudging behind me reluctantly. I realize halfway down the hall that I made the mistake of letting go of his hand, so I reach behind blindly and grab for his. He doesn’t protest; he just grasps onto me like he never wants me to go. (Fortunately for him, I don’t ever plan on leaving him. I’ll hold his hand for the rest of our lives, if that’s what it takes for him to be happy.)

When we reach our bedroom, his feet plant themselves in the doorway, but I don’t let him stay there. I pull him gently until he gives in. 

I sit in the middle of the bed, back against the wall, and open my arms. He regards me with hesitance, with calculating eyes, with a self-conscious reluctance. He knows what he wants, but I can tell that he doesn’t want to let himself indulge in this simple pleasure. I don’t know exactly why, but Baz tends to deny himself things he likes when he’s down. It’s like he tries to make himself suffer.

“Baz,” I whisper, motioning for him to join me. I watch as he takes a deep breath in, closes his eyes, then lets it out. The seconds he stands there, slouched and clearly on the verge of collapse, pass slowly. I sigh, “Baz, come on.”

He finally obeys — partially. He approaches our bed, but he only sits in the edge, back facing me. 

So I wrap my left arm around his waist and pull slowly, and he doesn’t even fight. He eventually just crawls over to his place in my arms, lying between my legs with his back pressed to my abdomen, his head in the crook of my neck, tucked under my chin. One of my hands settles in his hair, twirling the soft pieces like I do to my own curls; my other hand wraps around his body, securing him in place on my lap. He takes a deep breath, and this time it finally sounds like he’s calmed down. 

I think it’s because he loves being held. 

I learned this about Baz a few months into our relationship, and although it had surprised me back then, it makes sense now. He once said that he likes being held because it feels like I’m protecting him. Like I really care about his safety. Like I’m keeping him close because I truly _want_ him there. I had asked him why he doesn’t always feel like I want him there, and he just shrugged. He said I hadn’t done anything to make him feel that way. It was just insecurity. 

“Baz,” I start now, trying to get his attention. When he looks up at me, the expression shatters my heart. His eyebrows are knit together, his lip bitten, and his face scrunched. 

He’s about to cry. 

So I say what I’ve said to him every morning and every night for the past year. I say what I probably should say more often. I say what he repeats back to me consistently, even after the worst of our days. I say what I know he needs to hear right now. I say what I think will keep him from falling apart. “I love you, Baz. You know that. I love you so much.”

But I was wrong. The words don’t keep him together; instead, they make him suck in a choked breath and _sob_. 

“You shouldn’t, I—I don’t deserve it,” he cries, his words muffled by where his face is pressed into my neck. I can feel him shaking in my arms; I can feel his tears on my skin. I know how badly he’s hurting but I can’t figure out what to do. I hate seeing this side of him. I wish I could take away all his fears: that I’ll wake up one day and tell him that I’ve fallen out of love, that I’ll find something better and go back to hating him, that he’ll have to return to the same state of lonely desperation that he spent most of our childhood in. 

I don’t know how to fix that for him. 

“My mother should’ve killed me,” he whispers, throat clogged with tears and emotion. “She should’ve killed me when she had the chance, she— she would’ve _hated_ me, she should’ve just killed me,” he repeats, and it makes my chest tighten guiltily because this is one thing I don’t know how to address. I don’t have parents. I don’t know what to tell him or how to comfort him. 

Because who knows. Maybe Baz’s mother would’ve hated him. Maybe she would’ve wanted him dead, rather than have a vampire as a son. I can’t lie to him and say she would’ve loved him. Because I don’t know. Because some parents just suck. (Trust me, they do.)

But I _do_ know that I love him. 

I pry him off me just so I can look him in the eyes. He faces me, slouched with a bowed head, so I move to press my forehead to his. His eyes are closed, and a large tear rolls down his cheek, but I try to make him laugh. We’re still in our work clothes, so I tug on his tie until he opens his eyes and looks at me. (I’m still always caught off guard by how beautiful Baz’s face is, and today is no different — even despite the watery shine to his big grey eyes and the red-rimmed sadness that frames them.)

“I don’t know where I’d be if I didn’t have you, Baz. Come on, think about it. I’d probably be dead three times over. You’ve saved my life in so many ways, Baz. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I know that _I_ love you and _I_ need you.”

Then, before he can respond, I kiss him — because it’s still a great way to get his brain to turn off. 

His lips, though they taste of salt, feel like home. I have a feeling that he’s consoled for the same reason. He’s my home; I’m his. No matter how upset Baz is, I know I can make it slightly better with my closeness. We kiss for a short time — he must be truly exhausted because he pulls away first — but it doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever he wants if only it makes him happier. 

He’s giving me a small grin now, and though the smile is weak and wobbly and tearful, I know I’ve helped. At least a little, in my own way. 

“Simon Snow,” he says, and the way he speaks my name makes my cheeks red; it’s like some kind of saccharine poetry. I’m so in love with his voice that I actually sigh when he continues to talk. “I’ve loved you longer than I’ve loved myself, and yet you still never cease to amaze me. I don’t know what I did to earn your heart, but god, I hope I never lose it. I really don’t deserve you, Simon.”

“I’m never going to leave you,” I assure him. Even though he seems alright now, I need him to know how much he means to me because I don’t ever want to see him that upset again. It breaks my heart. “I’ll love you forever.”

“I love you, too,” he replies softly, and I swear to god I hope I can hear those words for the rest of my life. 

Now that he’s content, I wrap an arm around his waist and pull him back into my lap, so he’s lying comfortably on my chest. He complies wordlessly, falling into my grasp like he was born to fit there. With one last soft kiss to my collarbone, he finally rests his head in the crook of my neck, and I lean back, closing my eyes. Our breathing evens out, and just like that, we start to fall asleep. 

I’ve got him in my arms; I’m never letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> this was completely unplanned and spontaneous but i hope you enjoyed anyway! i love baz but i love angst even more BUT i did write a happy ending so that should make up for it  
> -lily  
> ps there’s art on my tumblr (same username and i don’t feel like linking it lol)


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